The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (9 page)

The Riddles was full of roads that dead- ended into buildings, or corkscrewed and wound about in mad tangles, leading back on themselves. There were stairways that led nowhere, buildings without doors, doors that opened onto the river—it was a place designed to confuse armies, separating them so that soldiers could be picked off one by one. Now it confused tax collectors and Crown Shields. It was a haven for thieves and murderers and people who did not want to be found. Ryland had located several safe houses here for family members who managed to escape the regent’s hunters, and Keros had long made his home here.

The roads were buckled and many of the cobblestones had been pried up to make other things, like makeshift hovels, walls, or baking ovens. It made for treacherous footing and more than once their horses stumbled. Nicholas cursed steadily in a low voice. Margaret smiled, liking him the better for it. It made him seem more human. She had always thought of him as the spider in the web, cold and calculating as he ruled his business empire. But he surprised her. He’d managed himself on the ledge and clambering down the rope, and his willingness to go after his son himself spoke well for him.

They were forced to go single file between two buildings that seemed to sway dangerously together as if they were about to tumble down. Margaret drew a knife from her boot and held it ready, the hair on her scalp prickling. Her glance swept the ground before them like a scythe, then moved upward. She saw the first bully-boy crouched in the cross braces beneath a balcony. He sat waiting like a vulture inside a cloak of shadow. He couldn’t be alone.

Margaret tipped her head subtly, scanning the roof-line. More shadows clung to the downspouts and window ledges. They intended to drop down as she and Nicholas exited. She didn’t doubt that more roughs had moved in behind to block their escape.

“Company,” she whispered. Damn them to the black depths! But she’d known that even as late as it was—or early—there was a risk to bringing horses into the Riddles.

“So I see,” came the quiet answer from behind her.

“Be ready to run.”

The trouble was, if she timed it right, she could probably win free, but the brigands would fall on Nicholas like an avalanche. As entertaining as it might be to see him get a mouthful of knuckles or someone’s boot to his gut, it wasn’t the right time. Maybe one day . . .

She held her knife ready and surreptitiously shortened her reins. Her gelding bowed his head and pawed the air, sensing her tension.
Good
. She passed the man perching above on the cross braces and was nearly to the end of the alley when she suddenly clamped her legs tight around the barrel of her horse and gave a loud cry. The sound echoed shockingly and her mount sprang forward as if launched from a catapult. Behind her she heard shouts. She cleared the alley and whipped her horse around. He reared and landed, standing more steadily than she had expected. He was a horse trained for trouble.

Nicholas had his sword in one hand and his knife in another. He swung at the figures dropping down around him. His horse was snapping and kicking at them—trained for trouble indeed.

Margaret didn’t wait. She clamped her legs tight and her gray bounded forward again. She didn’t have a sword and the reach that Nicholas did, but she had her knife and rings. She spun them on her fingers and flicked open the needles.

Three men and a woman were trapped between the enraged horses. They screamed and ducked as the horses snapped and lunged. Someone leaped onto the rump of Margaret’s mount and grasped her around her neck. She gripped his arm, digging needles into his flesh. He stiffened and gave a soft moan before dropping to the side, dragging her with him. She braced herself in the stirrup, bending and twisting as he fell away.

She heard the sounds of Nicholas’s rapier cutting the air, smelled the coppery sweet scent of blood and the fetid smell of the alley. A hand grabbed her ankle. She kicked and swiped at it with her knife. The hand released her.

“Go!” shouted Nicholas.

She sat back hard and pulled the reins and her gelding obediently scuttled backward, thank Chayos. She swung out of the alley opening with Nicholas lunging after her. She urged her horse into a choppy canter, zigzagging between buildings and around to the south. She didn’t slow down as they turned into a dead end. She reached out, trailing her fingers down the wall. Ahead, the brick wall melted away as the majick thankfully answered, and they plunged through. She swung about, slapping her hand down on top of the
sylveth
knob topping a post set just within the small courtyard. Instantly the wall behind them faded back into being and the knob burst into radiant light.

Margaret let out a heavy breath as she reached down to pat her sweating mount. “Good boy,” she murmured.

“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked sharply.

She turned to look at him. He carried his sword high. Blood dripped from it like thick red ink. There was a large rent in his caped coat, one eye was swollen and blood ran down his face from a cut across his cheek.

Margaret took stock of herself. Her throat would be bruised from where the bastard had grabbed her, and there were three deeply grooved scratches across the back of her left hand. Other than that, she was unhurt.

“Fine,” she said and slid down to the ground. She set her bloody knife on the ground and ran her hands over her mount, looking for wounds. He had a cut in his left shoulder and another on his fetlock, but was otherwise sound. When she turned back to Nicholas, she found him doing the same, though he had not let go of his rapier.

“What now?” he asked when he saw her looking at him.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“A friend.” She nodded at the
sylveth
knob on top of the post. “That signaled him. In the meantime, we can water the horses.” She went to the pump that stood beside a deep stone basin in the center of the courtyard. She cleaned out the leaf debris at the bottom and pumped the handle vigorously. After a minute, water began to flow into the basin. Her gray gelding nosed her in the back and then rubbed his head up and down against her. She stumbled to the side with a laugh and pushed him away.

“Patience, sweetheart,” she told him, rubbing behind his ear.

Nicholas came to stand on the other side of the gray. He rested his sword against the basin, point down, giving Margaret a frowning look, as if she confused him. Next he unbuckled the horse’s bridle and slid it over his ears. The gelding gave a moaning rumble of satisfaction and buried his nose in the water. Behind them a rumbling whinny reminded them of the bay. Nicholas gave a lop-sided grin and retreated to remove the animal’s bridle to allow him to drink.

The grin disturbed Margaret. There was no doubt that Nicholas Weverton was a charming man. Like her, he wore his affability and charismatic roguishness like a mask. It set people at ease and deflected their suspicion from what they each really were—treacherous.

She did not know how long it would be before Keros could answer the signal, so she unbuckled the cinches on the saddle and pulled it off, tipping it up against the wall. Nicholas had already begun to do the same and swiftly settled his tack beside hers. He grabbed the corner of his greatcoat and began rubbing the animal down. Margaret did the same, first dipping her cloak into the water to dab at the gelding’s wounds. Keros would heal them when he got there.

“They are remarkably steady in a fight,” she said.

“It seemed advisable,” he replied. “One never knows, after all.”

Margaret nodded sober agreement.

Silence fell then as they worked. When they were done, Margaret felt warm. She glanced again at Nicholas. The blood on his face had dried. She looked up in vague surprise. When had the rain stopped?

“Come here,” she said and pointed to the water basin. She dug in her pockets and found her black hood. Before she could tear it apart, he pulled out his handkerchief and wetted it in the water. He squeezed it and dabbed at his cheek and winced.

“Let me,” she said, taking the handkerchief. She dampened it again and deftly cleaned the wound. He flinched away and she reached up to hold him firmly. He stiffened, staring down at her with narrowed eyes. It was uncomfortably intimate.

“There,” she said when she was through. She stepped back and rinsed the square of linen in the basin, then handed it back. Before she could turn away, he gripped her hand.

“Your turn,” he said.

He dipped her scratched hand in the water and then scrubbed it gently with his handkerchief. His skin was warm, his hands calloused. Margaret’s cheeks flushed and she barely resisted the urge to yank away. At last he let go and reached for his rapier. Using his handkerchief, he cleaned the length of it. Margaret retrieved her knife and rinsed it in the water. She dried it on her cloak and returned it to its sheath, then strode away to a square corner on the opposite side of the courtyard where she pushed open a narrow door.

“There’s no room for the horses inside, but they should be safe enough out here,” she told him.

Inside was a small room with a woodstove in the corner, a long table with twenty chairs, and a set of shelves loaded with food, weapons, clothing, candles, and a vast number of other supplies. A door on the opposite wall led into a dormitory containing two dozen bunk beds lining either side of the walls. They were made of wood and rope and topped with straw-filled mattresses. The place had been prepared not only as a safe house for Ramplings escaping the regent’s hunt, but also as a staging area as they gathered for the resistance. It was one of several in the Riddles. There were a dozen scattered throughout Sylmont.

She went to a shelf, pulled down a wax-sealed jar and handed it to Nicholas, then reached for several more. She pushed aside the sacks of rice and beans and found a plump dried sausage. Nicholas had set the jars on the table and had found two metal trenchers. He dug away the wax on the first jar with the point of his knife. It contained preserved peaches in thick syrup. He speared one on his knife and slurped it down, even as his stomach growled loudly in the silence.

Margaret sawed off a hunk of the sausage and peeled away the casing. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast—almost a full day ago. She was famished. She pulled out a chair and sat down. Nicholas pulled out the chair beside her.

They polished off another jar of peaches and one of cherries and the rest of the sausage. Exhaustion weighed on Margaret. She yawned and shook her head to wake herself up and wished for a pot of strong tea. She looked up and found Nicholas watching her. He looked worried and tense. All of his wealth and he still couldn’t keep his son safe. It had to be tearing him apart.

“You astonish me,” he said quietly.

“Do I, now?” Margaret drawled, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

He flushed slightly and gave a little shrug. “My sources of information are generally thorough. Still, I had no idea of what you are.”

She rubbed her finger on the table, tracing the grain of the wood. “And what am I?” she murmured. Just at the moment she wasn’t sure. Neither Ryland nor Vaughn would forgive her for going to Nicholas; they would never trust her again. Still, she couldn’t regret it. She was doing something at last, and it could even turn the tide in the battle for Crosspointe. Nicholas reached out and captured her hand in his. She looked at him, startled. He bent forward, his gaze locked with hers. “Thank you. I owe you.”

She felt her cheeks heating and her stomach curled as his touch sent sparks tumbling through her veins.
No, no, no!
She
would not
be attracted to Nicholas Weverton of all people.

She pulled away, balling her hand into a fist. “Then when we get Carston back, you can help pry Truehelm out of the castle and put a Rampling back on the throne,” she said sharply, then stood. “I’m going to rest. Wake me when someone comes.”

She strode away into the dormitory, but the heat from his touch did not fade. She swore.

Keros didn’t return to the Riddles until well after dawn. He had walked from the headland back to Helmsdale through the raging storm and finally located a hack to carry him into Sylmont. It had taken him as far as the edge of the Riddles, but no hack was willing to cross inside without hefty monetary motivation, something Keros was ill prepared to provide. He paid the woman and got out and started for his home. The rain had subsided and the wind had died sometime in the early morning hours. Lucy’s warnings tumbled in his mind, cutting and gouging like shards of glass.

He stumbled over a pile of broken bricks and tangled weeds, biting back his annoyance. Close by, a girl laughed and a chip of stone bounced off his chest. He growled and stalked away.

His house looked like it was about to collapse. Trash and debris were piled up all around it, and a fetid mix of water and human waste trickled in a steady runnel in front of his front door. The shutters hung drunkenly or were gone altogether, and several of the top-story windows gaped like empty mouths. The door was a collection of planks tacked together by odd-sized strips of wood hammered crosswise. It looked like a gust of wind would knock it down.

Keros crossed to it and brushed his hand over the locking ward. It felt rubbery and weak, but opened for him.

He pulled the door just wide enough to squeeze inside and shut it tightly behind him. He leaned back, his head resting on the polished oak. The exterior of his home was a reality supported by illusion. Inside was cozy and well-cared for, with warm colors and the scent of herbs and spices. He drew a deep breath and let it out, then stripped off his wet clothes. Goose pimples rose on his flesh and his teeth chattered as he shivered. He left the wet things on the tile floor and dashed through the kitchen and up the stairs.

In his room he ran a bath, hoping the majick that kept his boiler piping hot had not failed. It hadn’t. He climbed in the tub gratefully, letting the heat seep through his cold muscles. It was only then that he noticed the slow pulse of light throbbing in his
illidre
. He sat up sharply and water sloshed over the rim of the tub.